to ensure she didn’t get her way. To walk away from her home, her company. Show her he couldn’t be manipulated.
But of course he couldn’t. Despite everything Polly was his twin—and pulling a stunt like this was completely out of character. Polly didn’t just quit; she was the hardest worker he knew. The sooner he found out what had happened and fixed it, the sooner they could both return to their lives.
And he was sure that the woman in front of him could help him, if he could just find a way to make her crack, like a ripe and rather inviting nut.
‘Okay, then, Clara Castleton,’ he said. ‘Lead the way.’
* * *
‘Is there something wrong?’
Clara knew she sounded cold. Raff Rafferty might have turned on the charm but she preferred to keep a professional distance, especially when her new client owned an easy smile and a devilish glint in blue, blue eyes.
And a disconcerting way of looking at her as if he could see straight through her barriers, as if the suit didn’t fool him at all. Her skin fizzed with awareness of his intense gaze—or with irritation at his high-handed ways.
Either way he was dangerous. The sooner she settled him in and got out, the better.
The tall blond man wasn’t actually her client but his sister had made sure Clara was fully briefed. The Golden Boy, apple of his grandfather’s eye. Clara knew men like Raff Rafferty all too well. It wasn’t a type she admired at all. Not any more.
Look at him now, leaning against her van, a smirk playing on those finely sculpted lips.
‘This yours?’
Clara held up the keys. ‘Why?’
His eyes swept assessingly over the large, practical van, her logo and contact details tastefully picked out on the side. ‘I imagined you driving something a little more elegant.’
Clara took a breath, an unexpected flutter in her stomach at the idea of something elegant, that she was featuring in his imagination at all. She pushed the thought resolutely away.
‘Save your imaginings,’ she said. ‘The van is practical.’
‘It’s practical all right.’
His lips were pressed together; Clara had the distinct impression that he was laughing at her. ‘I’m sure it’s not your usual style,’ she said as evenly as she could. ‘If you’d rather walk I can meet you there.’
‘Don’t worry about me. I’m not fussy.’
‘Great.’ She was sure that her attempted smile looked more like a grimace. She should make him sit in the back amongst the cleaning supplies and tools. See how fussy he was then.
At least, Clara reflected as she pulled the van out into the narrow main road that ran through the town, he hadn’t offered to drive. Some men found it hard to be driven by a woman, especially in a large van like this. Raff was the very definition of relaxed, leaning back in his seat, lean jean-clad legs outstretched.
Practical it might be, but the large van always felt out of place on Hopeford’s narrow windy streets. It took all Clara’s skills and concentration to negotiate the small roads. The overhanging houses and cobbled pavements might be picturesque enough to pull in tourists and Londoners looking for a lengthy if direct commute, but they were completely ill suited for work vans.
And it was easier to concentrate on the driving than it was trying to make conversation with someone who seemed to suck all the air out of the van. It had always felt so spacious before.
Unfortunately Raff didn’t seem to feel the same way. ‘How long has Polly lived here?’
Clara negotiated a particularly tight turn before answering as briefly as was polite. ‘About three years, I believe.’
He looked about him. ‘It seems quiet, not her kind of place at all.’
Clara glanced over at him. She knew that he and Polly were twins and the relationship was obvious. They both had straight, dark blond hair, although his was far more dishevelled than his sister’s usual sleek chignon, straight, almost Roman noses and well-cut mouths. But the similarity seemed only skin deep. Polly Rafferty was quiet, always working, whether at home or on her long train journey into the capital. She was reserved and polite; Clara was the closest thing she had in Hopeford to a friend.
On balance she much preferred the sister’s reservation to the brother’s easy charm and devilish grin. They were dangerous attributes, especially if you had once been susceptible to a laid-back rich boy’s style.
Clara knew all too well where that led. Nowhere she ever wanted to go again.
‘The town is increasingly popular,’ she said, carefully keeping her voice neutral. ‘It’s pretty, we have good schools and we’re on a direct train line into London.’
‘Ye—es...’ He sounded doubtful. ‘But Polly doesn’t have kids and last I saw she wasn’t that bothered about quiet either. If she wanted pretty there are plenty of places in London that fit the bill. It’s not like she’s short of money.’
His tone was disparaging and the look on his face as he stared out at the picturesque street no better. Clara gripped the steering wheel tightly. She might moan about incomers flooding the place, driving prices up and her friends out, but at least they appreciated the town.
‘You don’t have to stay here,’ she said after a moment. ‘There are plenty of hotels in London.’
His lips tightened. ‘The key to Polly’s whereabouts is here. I can feel it. Until I know where she is—and how I can get her to come home—I’m staying.’
* * *
Polly Rafferty’s house was just a short drive away from Clara’s office, a pretty cottage situated on a meandering lane leading out to the countryside. It was one of Clara’s favourite houses; many of her clients had bought the huge new builds that had sprung up on gated estates around the town, large and luxurious certainly but lacking in Hopeford charm.
‘Picturesque.’ It wasn’t a compliment, not with that twist of the mouth.
‘Isn’t it?’ she said, deliberately taking his statement at face value. ‘This is the most sought-after area in town, close to the countryside and the train station. There’s a good pub within walking distance too.’
‘All amenities,’ Raff said, looking about him, his expression one step removed from disdainful.
The condescension prickled away at her. It was odd. She had so many clients who talked down to her and her staff and it never got to her; twenty minutes in this man’s sardonic company and she was ready to scream.
Ignoring him, Clara unlocked the front door and stood back to let the tall man enter. He stood there for a second, clearly conflicted about preceding her into the house. She waited patiently, a thrill of satisfaction running through her when he finally gave in, ducking to fit his tall frame through the small door.
He was as out of place in the low-ceilinged, beamed cottage as a cat at Crufts. The house was sparingly and tastefully decorated
